


A Close Shave & A Haircut

by Corpyburd



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 10:46:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corpyburd/pseuds/Corpyburd
Summary: Edmund Reid decides to visits the sacrosanct temple that all men call the barbers





	A Close Shave & A Haircut

Inspector Reid looked in the mirror as he put on his bowler hat. Peering a little closer at his reflection he quickly removed it again, running his rather large left hand through his hair several times.  
  
“Haircut.” murmuring to himself then stroked the stubbly whiskers on his chin. “And a shave.”  
  
Breezing past the red and white striped pole, opening the door of the barbers in Leman Street, was like entering a secret temple. Its neatly lined assemblage of sacred oils, colognes, pomatums on each marble counter. With the revered strops and razors opposite the shaving brushes, combs, scented soaps and mustache wax .  
  
It had always been an alternative universe where the old boys of Whitechapel gathered to talk politics, on London life and of course about women. Then to and complain about how things were never as good as they used to be.  
  
As he waited, Edmund Reid looked around, remembering how his father took him for his first haircut here, marvelling at the barber in his brightly coloured waistcoat and white apron as he swiped his razor across the leather belt, honing the blade to deadly sharpness before shaving off the whiskers of one of the neighbourhood men in deft strokes of his wrist.  
  
His name was known all over London. “Joe's place” was spoken with respect and a sense of reverence.  
  
And when Joe called you over to his chair it was like being summoned to the altar of a high priest. You carefully sat yourself on that huge red leather chair, like an enormous throne, and gazed out over the sea of old men, the light shining off their bald crowns.  
  
They would nudge each other saying something like “you better not squirm, or Joe might cut your ear off”. He knew they were only joking, or maybe just trying to scare him, but he would laughed it off because he knew that it was just a test, just the initiation to this great fraternity of men in the Barbers.  
  
  
  
Joe fastened the paper strip around his neck, buttoned the cape on the high throne of leather, he felt like he was wearing the vestments of some very powerful religion, about to take part in a timeless tradition, a ritual.  
  
The best part of the haircut and shaves was Joe’s witty remarks. “Something for the weekend, Sir?” he would say with a wink and a nudge. He would then proceed to ask about the weather, your family and work or what was happening in the newspapers. Edmund would laugh at the absurdity of some of Joe’s remarks.  
  
Then came the crowning moment; Joe lathered his neck with hot white shaving cream, and then with his gleaming blade of steel, he would shave your neck; it was barbershop ritual. “You look like a new man,” he would say with great aplomb, “the women and gentlemen of Leman Street won’t even recognize you when you leave!”  
  
Even though Joe said the same inane witty remarks countless times over the years, Edmund never got tired of hearing them. They resonated in his mind, echoing like catchphrases.  
  
Like most men, this holy temple of manhood held an important place in his life. They where a gathering place where everyone knew your name, and the haircut or shave you received paled in significance to the experience of being around wise old men who told tales of the olden days; barbershop philosophers who always had a story to tell.  
  
Joe turned to Edmund when he had finished. “Would you like to try our new hair oil?“ “It’s our best seller, Inspector. It’s called Jackson’s miracle hair tonic. People can’t get enough of it.”  



End file.
